


The Music Man

by exbex



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 01:24:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exbex/pseuds/exbex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt:  Sherlock the music/instrument store owner rarely has the patience to assist customers, but he might just take the time for a war veteran looking for a clarinet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Music Man

Most people think that Mike Stamford is a bloke who isn’t concerned with what others think. The reality is quite the opposite. Mike is a bloke who is very interested in what others think, but people’s perceptions rather please him, as most dismiss him as ordinary, unassuming, a portly man who is reasonably intelligent and ambitious and who likes to keep his nose clean. Such assumptions work out well for Mike, who finds that, because of these assumptions, he can get away with just a bit of meddling, and quite a lot of people-watching.

The latter doesn’t often lead to the former, but the moment that Mike’s keen, yet supposedly unassuming eye spots John Watson limping through the park with a downcast expression, he knows that this day will be an exception to the usual.

**

“Let me buy you a coffee.” Truthfully, Mike would prefer to buy John a meal, sit him down in a nice pub where they can sip a few pints and linger over some comfort food, something to loosen John’s lips a bit. But the look on John’s face tells Mike that he would easily find a way to brush off that offer. A simple coffee on a January day on a park bench is much more difficult to turn down.

**

The manner in which John stood in the queue and settled himself on a bench told Mike that the limp was psychosomatic. The way John clenched and unclenched his left hand told Mike that he’d been shot in the arm or shoulder, not the leg. John didn’t feel the need to hide these things, partly because he seemed to be existing in a fog of boredom and depression, and partly because he, like most people, tends to underestimate Mike. Mike is fine with the latter, decidedly not fine with the former, but it’s because of the latter that the seeds of a plan are taking root in his mind.

Mike gives just enough cursory details of his current life, slipping in a joke about his students to earn a slight laugh, before switching the subject to John. “What now?” The question is just uncomfortable enough to put John in a slightly vulnerable position. John shrugs. “Probably try to find some work at a surgery.”

The expression on John’s face tells Mike that this is a decidedly depressing thought, so Mike eschews any trite attempts to reassure him and goes for the unexpected. “You could take up the clarinet again.”

Mike is undeterred by John’s dubious expression. “You were always brilliant at it.”

John looks decidedly uncomfortable with the topic. Indubitably he’s been reminded of his days as a student, in which he was a brilliant clarinet player, but also a rugby player and a hopeful, excited young man ready to take on the world. Or at least invade Afghanistan. Mike curses his own abruptness.

**

Mike doesn’t forget about the conversation, but he’s forced to push it to the back of his mind until a little more than a week later, when John sends him a text message. Mike can’t help a grin; the request fits perfectly into the absolutely mad plan that Mike has concocted.

My therapist thinks the clarinet thing is a good idea. Against my better judgment, I’m taking your advice. Know of any place I can get a clarinet?

**

Sherlock Holmes is not just a virtuoso, but a genius, and he can take one look at a person and rattle of an entire list of observations. He is so aware of his own genius that he has little patience for casual shoppers. But his awareness also creates a sort of blind spot: in detesting the inferior intelligence of the masses, he can occasionally be (harmlessly) manipulated. Hence, Mike has prepared a sort of script in mind. He’ll briefly introduce John to Sherlock, then wander off to find a new set of drumsticks for Emma (she’s inherited all of Mike’s unbridled enthusiasm but blessedly differs in sheer amount of natural rhythm; as in, actually possesses it, unlike her father). It would be out of his hands at that point, but hopefully the push he provides will create a catalyst.

Sherlock doesn’t look up at the sound of the two men entering the music store. That’s fine, Mike knows he’ll have to have to irritate Sherlock to get him to take notice, and he is prepared for it. “Sherlock, this is an old friend of mine, John Watson. He’s looking for a clarinet.”

Sherlock is contrary, but he knows to deign to help a potential customer. Granted, his patience may run out after forty seconds, but that’s all Mike really needs.

Sherlock seems to repress a sigh, but looks up from his phone. Mike knows after only a moment that his plan has worked. Sherlock’s eyes widen only slightly (on anyone else, Mike would have described it as ‘lighting up’).

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

Mike watches (it was already working, no risk of being found out, and even if Sherlock was managing to observe Mike’s manipulation even as he was absorbed by the man in front of it, no worries as long as it works) as John blinks. “Sorry?”

“Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John stammers. “Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know ...?”

“Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp’s really bad when you walk but you don’t ask for a chair when you stand, like you’ve forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq.”

John opens his mouth, then closes it, then finally- “That…that’s amazing.”

The pleased look on Sherlock’s face is unmistakable. Mike is aware that his own countenance probably matches it, but he can’t be arsed to care.

“You clench and unclench your right hand, showing that you have some damage. The way you hold your arm says shoulder. You’re looking for a clarinet, but you haven’t played in a several years, as evidenced by the self-conscious look on your face. You’re concerned about your dominant hand though, so I’ll venture….Army doctor?

The stunned look on John’s face says that he’s more pleased than appalled. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Come.” Sherlock is around the counter and by John’s side in a nearly frighteningly short amount of time. “I have just the thing for you. You’ll begin playing again, become comfortable with it, eventually feeling comfortable enough with using your hands again to return to medicine…”

Mike doesn’t know if Sherlock is correct or just pontificating from the rush of having John’s undivided attention. He promptly decides it doesn’t matter.


End file.
